Chuck

Toward the end of their allotted time, as Arthur could figure it, as the last cylinder hissed out its oxygen, he wondered whether it would be better to stay here in the cave and let the stale air slowly, ever so slowly, sap their strength and their senses, or whether they should open the door and go outside into whatever there was waiting out there.

But Fran, to whom he had not wanted to bring up the subject, had thought of it too, spoke of it, and together they decided that the Known, capital K, was better than the Unknown, capital U. Besides, they'd had experience out there, and the memory of that sudden melancholy and pathological drowsiness was not all pleasant.

They started on what must be the last day.

Arthur announced somewhat weakly, for there wasn't much air left, that they'd stretched the oxygen out five days more than he'd figured.

The twelfth day, murmured Fran.

It reminded her of something biblical.

Arthur had finished whatever he had to finish at the typewriter earlier with nearly the last of the strength in his fingers.

The page merely gave the facts of their predicament, the supreme fact of which was that their fresh oxygen had been gone since early morning.

Hmm.

Hmm.

It was no day to die, Arthur thought, as men have thought of every day so marked by destiny.

Capital D. He looked at the greenness outside, the sameness.

So funny that all this had happened, that all this could have happened.

He felt very tired.

His breath was shallow and unsatisfying.

Fran pressed against him, and he'd managed to turn his head.

She was crying, and he kissed her, their mouths dry, except for where a tear ran down and touched their lips in union.

This would be, at least, their way to die.

As completely together as two people could be,

Eh, not quite.